


An Old Man's Tales

by notebooksandlaptops



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Bittersweet, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Living Together, M/M, Old Age, Old Jaskier | Dandelion, POV Outsider, Retirement, but why would you, human jaskier, mortal jaskier, no beta we die like renfri, you could read this as platonic i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:27:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23079337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notebooksandlaptops/pseuds/notebooksandlaptops
Summary: At the edge of the village, in a house surrounded by wild-flowers and weeds - re-built from its former crumbling foundations – there lived the Old Man.He’d earnt the rights for the capital O, capital M off of the rest of the villagers barely a week after he’d moved into their humble world. For he had not grown up here, like everyone else did.Yet he settled and settled as if he had always been there. He wandered the cliffsides, the beaches, the streets. He strung shells together and gifted them to the ladies of the village with a wink that betrayed the charming young man he once must have been. He bought the little ceramic pots Alicja sold on the market, and he filled them with weeds as if the weeds were flowers worth showcasing.And – most importantly – he sang.-///-Or, Jaskier settles in a costal village towards the end of his life.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 35
Kudos: 458





	An Old Man's Tales

At the edge of the village, in a house surrounded by wild-flowers and weeds - re-built from its former crumbling foundations – there lived the Old Man.

He’d earnt the rights for the capital O, capital M off of the rest of the villagers barely a week after he’d moved into their humble world. For he had not grown up here, like everyone else did. He’d come and _settled_ in the midst of this dying little seaside economy that the smarter children longed to flea while the adults pretended not to see the crumbling of the old ways of life.

The Old Man was the first newcomer in decades.

Yet he settled and settled as if he had always been there. He wandered the cliffsides, the beaches, the streets. He strung shells together and gifted them to the ladies of the village with a wink that betrayed the charming young man he once must have been. He bought the little ceramic pots Alicja sold on the market, and he filled them with weeds as if the weeds were flowers worth showcasing.

And – most importantly – he _sang._

The Old Man never stopped singing. He hummed under his breath, he sung a tad too loud after the children had gone to sleep. His house was a near constant concert and the Old Man always welcomed an audience.

And if you stayed long enough – if you stuck around for the end of the songs, or if you got him enough drinks at the local tavern, he’d tell you the stories.

And oh, what stories that Old Man told.

They had to be fake, of course. This charming Old Man with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes could hardly have been a survivor of war, of destiny, of the monster hunts he spoke of with such glee, of the noble courts and nobler deeds he clamed he’d been a part of. But the stories were captivating – that everyone agreed upon – and so nobody questioned the Old Man much on how his details must have been exaggerated.

He’d brought many tales to their little life. But of all of them, Zofia’s favourite were those of the _White Wolf –_ The Great Witcher.

Zofia was the blacksmiths daughter, and at nine and a half years old, she was certain that one day she’d leave their little costal village and see all the wonders of the continent that the Old Man described. She’d find out the truth behind the Old Man’s tales, and she’d come back one day and tell him all about what she’d seen. (Too young, too young to understand that he wouldn’t be here when she came of age – but childhood was the land where nobody died, and Zofia had not yet left it – better to leave her to enjoy that time than to rip it from her heedlessly).

The Old Man would light up when Zofia asked him about the Witcher. He would recount more tales than anyone had the space to listen to – but Zofia tried to listen to all of them. And if she listened long enough, those tales would become softer.

The Old Man now sat in the field by his house, head tilted back and eyes closed, “and oh, he taught me the true meaning of love,” he explained to her attentive ears. Zofia might know little of love, but she knew that it was precious, it was what her mother and father shared, and when she’d asked they’d told her it was why babies were born – so it must be _mightily_ important, “Not just the passing fancy, the heat of a flame, he taught me _love_ – unending, undying, love that’ll last longer than any mortal could.”

And if Zofia was older, she might have noticed the sadness in his tone, the bitter-sweetness, but she was young and so her young mind skipped over it in favour of heroic deeds and unconditional affection.

“And where is he? Where is the Witcher?”

The Old Man shook his head, “a secret, my dear. But out there, no doubt, slaying monsters and causing a stir where he doesn’t mean to,” He’d whisper and kiss her forehead before retreating back into his house.

Her parents whispered that the Old Man was lonely, that it was a shame all he had in this world seemed to be his made-up stories and his songs.

“But he has the Witcher!” Zofia had interrupted once and been chased away to bed without her response being answered.

Because of course, she was young, and foolish, and did not realise the truth of the matter: _nobody believed in witchers anymore._

Old wives tales, that was all they were. Or, more accurately for here and now, Old Men’s tales.

Nothing to them, not out here on the coast, where monsters hadn’t been seen for decades, where they’d faded to memory alone.

Zofia believed in Witchers, though. Which was perhaps why she was not surprised when one day she was out picking flowers, and she saw him.

The White Wolf, the Witcher. It must be. There was nobody else that she knew who was described that way: described as having beautiful tumbles of white-grey hair (that matched the Old Man’s, as they sat side by side) or big yellow eyes like the family cats.

He was sat outside the cottage, and his fingers were running through the thinning strands of the Old Man’s hair. They looked…happy, she thought, the Old Man looked happier than even when he was telling his stories.

And despite how her mother said it was wrong to eavesdrop, she found herself creeping closer to get a peak of what this Witcher who filled the tales of the Old Man was truly like.

“And Ciri? She is well?” The Old Man was saying.

“Hm,” The Witcher responded, “Well. But monsters are fewer these days – she spends a fair amount of time with Yennefer instead of with me. And I spend a fair amount of time between jobs.”

The Old Man sighed, “I imagine. Not like when I was young, eh? You’ve lost your good luck charm.”

The Witcher was silent for a moment. Zofia wondered if perhaps he was truly as gruff as described in the stories. She’d always imagined him gallant and noble but here he was silent.

“You asked me once,” The Witcher said finally, “whether Witchers retire.”

The Old Man laughed, “A _long_ time ago, dearheart. Your response was something drab about retiring on the end of a sword or a monster’s claw or some such nonsense, I believe.” Zofia watched as the old man tilted his head so he was fully laying down, head in the Witchers lap. He looked peaceful. He looked…young.

“Hm. I have been thinking more about it. About…retiring. For a little while at least.”

“With Yennefer?” And there was something odd in the Old Man’s voice; something that Zofia was too young to identify.

“No. Here.”

Zofia almost let out a sound but hid it behind her hand. A Witcher! Here! Her parents would _have_ to believe her then!

She shifted, moved to run home, only just heard the, “oh, you dear, lovely Witcher, you,” whispered by the Old Man. She would tell them. She would tell her parents that Witchers _were_ real, and that one would be staying right here in the village with them.

-///-

Except the Witcher never did. There was nobody with white hair, nobody with yellow eyes, nobody magnificent like in the Old Man’s tales.

And yet, the Old Man was also not alone anymore.

There was someone who had come and moved in with him. They had dark hair though, and hazzle eyes. They got a job with Zofia’s father in the blacksmith – they were good with metal – and they were quiet about all but the Old Man, who they could talk on for hours; about how annoying he was, how kind, how wonderful, how idiotic.

The new man would walk with the Old Man across fields and across the beach.

The Old Man laughed more often, smiled more, sang more.

And everyone agreed that they were very sweet.

Nobody would believe Zofia when she claimed that sometimes when she looked at the new man, she saw a flash of yellow-gold in his eyes, or hair that was a different colour than his normal brown. Nor did anyone believe when she said she’d seen a beautiful mage with violet eyes come to the edge of the village, to the house surrounded by wild-flowers and weeds talking of performing glamour’s and seeing old friends.

But she didn’t mind; the Old Man still told his tales and that was what was important to her.

**Author's Note:**

> This is slightly sad, but my brain couldn't stop thinking about it so here it is.
> 
> Comments and Kudos mean the world to me if you have the time!


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